He looked at me and saw the state I was in. His nostrils flared, and I watched his armor shift, the bulge between his legs swelling visibly.
"The storm is weakening," he said. "Another day. Maybe less."
Another day. I couldn't survive another day.
I crossed the chamber and stopped in front of him, naked and desperate and past the point of pride.
"Please."
"Please what?" His voice was rough. Strained. He was suffering too, I realized. Had been suffering this whole time.
"Touch me. I'm asking. Not begging. Asking." I met his eyes. "Please."
His expression changed. He reached out, touched my face with one massive hand.
"Lie down."
I lay down on the sleeping platform. He knelt beside me, and for a moment he just looked. His eyes traveled over my body with that assessing gaze. Cataloguing. Evaluating.
"You're so swollen," he said. His hand moved down, hovered over my pussy without touching. "Eight days of this. Your body is desperate."
"Yes."
"You've been trying to satisfy yourself."
"It doesn't work. You know it doesn't work."
"I know." His finger traced a line from my navel to my pubic bone. Not quite touching where I needed. "Your body has been conditioned to need me specifically. My scent. My touch. My?—"
"Please." The word came out broken. "Please, I can't?—"
His fingers found my clit.
The first touch was electric. I gasped, my hips jerking up, my whole body shuddering. He circled the swollen bud with a pressure that made my vision blur.
"That's it," he murmured. "Show me what you need."
His other hand found my entrance. Two fingers pushed inside, and I cried out at the fullness. Not enough. Not nearly enough. But so much better than the emptiness I'd been drowning in.
He worked me with both hands. Fingers inside me, curling against that spot. Thumb on my clit, circling in steady rhythm. Methodical. Precise. The same attention to detail he applied to construction.
I came within minutes. A sharp, bright orgasm that tore through me without warning. My walls clenched around his fingers, my back arched off the platform, and I heard myself making sounds that weren't quite human.
He didn't stop.
"One," he counted. "Give me more."
His fingers moved faster. Harder. He added a third, stretching me wider, and the burn of it mixed with pleasure until I couldn't tell them apart. His thumb pressed harder on my clit, rubbing in tight circles.
Two. The second orgasm crashed into the first, rolling waves of pleasure that left me gasping.
"More."
Three.
Four.
I was sobbing now, tears streaming down my face, my body convulsing with each peak. His fingers were relentless, finding every sensitive spot, working me with a precision that felt almost cruel in its thoroughness.
